It made us much more clear in our directive.
Thanks for your input gassy. Claifying as usual.
Weekend afternoon. 1995. 54 years old. Smoker (then) but in fairly good health. Working on cabin in the mountains. Heavy lifting. Felt sick. Got worse. Took aspirin. Went to lie down, thinking that the illness would pass. Got weaker and sicker. Wife and son put me in the car and drove me to the ER in our little country hospital (10 miles away over twisty mountain roads). Blood clot. Clot buster (tPA) administered after I signed a release and acknowledgement that the reaction to the clot buster might bring death. It did.
I had a DNR on file. Nurse reminded doctor. He ignored her, called for the paddles and said “clear.” Terrible pain followed by body drawing up into fetal position, afib and heart stoppage. Nothing. Take two, same result. Flat line. Doctor decided to give me one more chance. Success. Twenty-seven years later life is good.
The resuscitation saved my life. The aspirin probably kept me alive long enough to reach the hospital where I was lucky to be treated by a GP, trained by a great cardiologist who made it his purpose to once a week visit small town hospitals to help rural doctors understand and deal with urgent heart issues.
Whatever combination of pain, embarrassment and indignity the article’s writer imagines, it is far preferable to death.